


2019 Advent Fic Challenge

by Ttime42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Ficlet Challenge 2019, Alcohol, Angels, Bathing/Washing, Books, Bubble Bath, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Presents, Comfort Food, F/M, Food, Gen, M/M, Santa Claus - Freeform, Santa's Elves, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock's Violin, Snow, Snowball Fight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:27:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21633640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ttime42/pseuds/Ttime42
Summary: A collection of holiday themed ficlets based on prompts. Tags will update as chapters are posted. *Will become explicit!*
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 38
Collections: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	1. Elf

"I look ridiculous." Sherlock hissed to John.

"It's for a good cause." John said. He glanced over Sherlock. He wasn't wrong. The "Santa's elf" costume Sherlock was sporting was a garish blend of bright green, screaming red, and snow white. 

"Good causes are overrated."

"Shush!" John glared at him and handed a present to a little boy with a smile. "Happy Christmas!" He said.

They were participating in NSY's annual holiday toy giveaway. Officers volunteered to hand out donated toys to less fortunate children. It was a big hit every year and Sherlock wasn't the only one dressed as an elf. He was the easily the surliest elf present, however. Sherlock glared at the Santa hat on John's head. John was wearing jeans and a dark green knit jumper, looking very normal save for the festive hat on his head.

"I'm stealing your hat." Sherlock growled.

"No you're not. Give this girl a present."

Sherlock gave the next girl in line a present wrapped in pink paper. She giggled at his costume and he aimed a fake smile at her. "Happy Christmas," he ground out.

"That's the spirit." John patted his shoulder.

"Never doing this again." Sherlock said when her mother had herded her away.

"You're the one who made the bet with Lestrade and lost. Otherwise he'd be in this getup."

"Never betting with Lestrade again."

"I can't believe you made a bet on who'd win that football game--against his favorite team no less!"

"I had an algorithm!" They both said it at the same time and Sherlock growled.

"There's worse things you could be doing." John said reasonably. "Giving gifts to kids? Making them happy?"

"It's not the children that bother me, it's this bloody costume!"

John took pity on his flatmate. "Look, wear it for a bit, I'll get some photos to send to Greg, and then just put on your normal clothes."

Sherlock nodded, looking much appeased by this solution. He smiled, genuine this time, at the next group of children. John got plenty of photos and ten minutes later Sherlock was in dark jeans and a deep red sateen button up. 

"Better?" John asked. He offered a pair of soft felt antlers on a headband.

Sherlock took the headband and placed it squarely on his head as if he were a king donning his crown. "Much."


	2. The Science of the Season

John came down the steps one chilly, snowy morning to find his flat mate pacing briskly between the sitting room and kitchen. He had a manic gleam in his eye and his hair was a mess. His red dressing gown was sliding off his shoulder as it flapped around his knees.

"Alright?" John asked.

"It doesn't make sense, John." Sherlock shook his head as he disappeared into the kitchen.  
John let out a small sigh. He was off work today and before he learned what was logical or not, he was going to fix himself a cup of that really good coffee he'd gotten from the staff Christmas gift thing at work yesterday. Everything was better when he had coffee. He added a couple careful scoops of the expensive grounds to the machine and flipped it on. He glanced at the kitchen table and blinked. There were papers all over the surface. Was Sherlock up all night solving a case? They'd nothing on. He looked closer at the strewn pages and realized there were several pictures of jolly Father Christmas and a reindeer mixed in with pages and pages of calculations. 

The coffee machine beeped and John found two Christmas mugs in the back of the cabinet. He poured coffee into the one with the green and gold fair isle pattern on it. "Sherlock, you want some of this?" He called. He heard him mutter something about 'the physics of it all' before he sighed and poured the second cup. He added sugar to Sherlock's and milk for his own and turned around. Sherlock was now in the sitting room flipping manically through a book. John went up to him and stuck the second cup of coffee in his face. "Here. Got this at work, s'really good." Sherlock took it and John cradled his own mug and sipped. He closed his eyes. The rich flavor flooded his mouth and seemed to seep right into his very bones. It was exquisite. Sherlock stared helplessly into his own coffee, looking distressed. 

John put a bracing hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. "Try the coffee." He encouraged, "then tell me about what doesn't make sense."

Sherlock did. He hummed, pleased, in his throat. "Father Christmas," he said. 

"...what about him?"

"He doesn't make sense. The reindeer, the flying, the bloody logistics of it all are completely impossible!"

John stared at him. "There's no case on?"

"No!" Sherlock snarled. "This is what I've come to, John. Examining the finer points of children's tales. I may as well retire now‒there's no coming back from this." He pushed his mug back into John's hand and collapsed into his chair. The book he'd been flipping through fell to the floor. "There's no point in continuing to be a professional detective. I'm finished." He curled up into a pathetic ball and put his face in his hands. John grit his teeth at the melodrama of it all at stared at the ceiling for patience.

"Here," he said kindly. "Finish this before it gets cold and explain to me how it doesn't make sense." John knew by now that the best way to cure Sherlock of his darker moods was to encourage him to talk and them just let him go. Like a wind up toy. 

Sherlock dragged himself to his feet, plucked the mug from John's hand, and went to the kitchen. "Father Christmas, I'm told, traverses the globe in one night, delivering gifts to every 'good' child. How he defines 'good' can only be guessed." He scoffed at Father Christmas' lack of specific measurable data. "At each home, he must park his sleigh, get down the chimney, deliver at least one gift per child, eat whatever victuals are provided, return up the chimney, get back in the sleigh, and repeat the process."

"Yes." John nodded.

"Based on my calculations, Father Christmas, or 'Santa' if you prefer, has roughly thirty-one hours to 'round the globe, taking time zones into account."

"Naturally." John sipped his coffee. He couldn't believe his genius flat mate was devoting this much brain power to such a ridiculous notion. It was kind of cute. 

"John, that is almost four hundred million people, Christian children specifically, that Father Christmas has to deliver gifts too. He has to make eight hundred twenty-two point six visits per second in order to reach everyone! That means he has only one-one thousandth of a second to spend at each home and the sleigh needs to be moving at six hundred fifty miles per second. Per second! It's not possible and this isn't even taking the reindeer into account."

"Sherlock."

"Reindeer can run, tops, fifteen miles per hour and pull, at most, three hundred pounds. For the sake of argument, let's say each child will receive a gift that weighs roughly one kilogram. So with something like three hundred thousand pounds of gifts, the sleigh," he ticked the points off on his fingers, "and a jumbo like Santa, there would need to be at least two hundred thousand reindeer pulling."

"Sherlock."

"They would explode from the force and speed of the movement! The energy required to move at those speeds would cause sonic booms‒not to mention Father Christmas would be subjected to centrifugal forces over seventeen thousand times greater than gravity‒" 

"Sherlock!" 

He stopped and stared at John.

John smiled. "There's a really simple explanation, mate." 

"What?" Sherlock sounded suspicious, disbelieving, and insulted all at once.

"He's magic." John said with a little shrug.

Sherlock blinked. "That's preposterous. That‒no."

"Father Christmas doesn't follow the laws of science and physics."

"But he's of this earth!"

"Is he?" John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock sank into the kitchen chair. "Do the children not question this massive logistical flaw?"

"No. They're just excited to get presents and Father Christmas makes it more fun for the kiddos."

Sherlock conceded this. "I suppose." He stood up and gathered his mug again, already past the logistical failures of Christmas fables. 

"This coffee is a delight. Do thank your coworkers."

John laughed. "I will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not do the math. I lifted it all from this article:   
> https://gizmodo.com/can-santa-claus-exist-a-scientific-debate-1669957032


	3. The More the Merrier

John's romantic movie night was shaping up to be perfect. It was so hard to get Sherlock to watch anything "trivial" (Sherlock's words, not his) that his easy agreement this time nearly made John fall over. He'd suggested Sherlock pick the film and to his surprise he selected a newly released DVD of a Christmas comedy John had actually been meaning to see.

"You sure?" John prompted carefully. "It has that actor you said was cheating on his wife. You could tell by his tie."

Sherlock shrugged. "The personal lives of celebrities have no interest to me, John, surely you've realized that in the year we've been dating."

John let the snide tone slide. Sherlock had agreed and that was more than he'd expected. The morning of, he got a couple bottles of wine and those truffle chocolates from Tesco he knew Sherlock liked. He called up Angelo and requested a few food items for delivery. He wanted to give the restaurant time to make their order perfect. 

Sherlock, bored that afternoon, went to the morgue. John came with as they were going to stop by the library afterwards to pick up the movie. 

"Hullo, you two!" Molly greeted them at the morgue's swinging doors. "I've a fresh one, Sherlock. See if you can guess how he died."

Sherlock happily donned gloves and leaned over the corpse, immediately tuning out the rest of the world. 

"What are you two up to later? Molly asked once they'd exchanged pleasantries.

"Not much, gonna watch a movie, have a drink, you know. Order dinner."

"Oh that sounds fun!" Molly said. "Greg and I aren't doing anything tonight." She and Greg had been dating for a few months.

John froze. "Oh?" He said, forcing politeness. _Don't come over._

"Yeah, what are you watching?"

He told her the film's title. "It only got so-so reviews, he said, trying to decrease her interest. Might not even be funny. It has that one actor in it, you know, the one who's cheating?"

"I wanted to see that but we missed it in the theaters."

"Son of a bitch, that's too bad!" John said, forcing a too-loud laugh.

"Oh, do you mind if Greg and I come by? We'll bring some nibbles."

John paused. He liked Molly and Greg, he did, but this was supposed to be just him and Sherlock, dammit. Molly, though kind as could be, wasn't known for her ability to gracefully pick up on social cues....like how John didn't actually want other people in the flat tonight.

"Er, not at all." He said, still not completely okay with this but not wanting to be rude. "The more the merrier, as they say."

That evening, John sat between Sherlock and Molly on the sofa. Mrs. Hudson had joined the fun and was sitting in Sherlock's armchair. Greg was in John's. It wasn't bad, really. John had ordered enough food for everyone and Greg and Molly had brought a load of snacks. He and Sherlock were sharing a blanket and Sherlock was sweetly curled against him. Sitting by the glow of the Christmas tree, with a fire crackling in the hearth, and surrounded by the company of friends, there wasn't much more a person could ask for.


	4. Lights

Sherlock blew through the front door to 221B, shoving the black door shut against the howling wind. He took a deep breath of the warm air in the foyer before he began peeling his leather gloves off his fingers. A crash and a muttered cuss word drew his attention to 221C's open door. Curious, he hung up his coat and stepped into the open doorway to listen. The sounds of scraping cardboard and John muttering to himself floated up the stairs. Sherlock went down and found John bent over a plastic tote box labeled 'x-mas stuff' in black marker.

"John?"

He startled and stood up. "Sherlock, hi."

"What are you doing?"

"Gonna decorate the flat. It's already the 4th and we don't even have a tree."

"Do we need one?"

"Well," John sighed helplessly. "Tis the season, right?"

John dug some more and slapped the lid back on the box. "Grab one end, yeah? I'm going to look at this upstairs."

They set the large tote box in front of their coffee table and John went back at it. Sherlock put the kettle on.

"Ah-ha, lights!" John grabbed the plug poking out of a plastic bag and pulled. It didn't budge. He tugged again, this time peeling the plastic bag away. He pulled the large, tangled lump of fairy lights free and eyed it, biting his lip. How on earth had it gotten so hopelessly tangled? Certainly it wasn't like that when they put it away last year? "This is a mess." He said.

Sherlock brought in two cups of tea and eyed the wad of lights. "The longer the length of a cable, the more likely it is to tangle. The rigidity and diameter of the cable‒or in this case, the string of fairy lights‒also affect whether or not it tangles, as well as how much the disturbance the cable experiences." Sherlock sipped his tea. "Of course in this case the tangling probability is compounded by the fact that there are bits of glass sticking off the cable every eight or so inches."

John stared at him, incredulous. 

"I read about it for a case once." Sherlock said.

"Disturbance the cable experiences?" John repeated. "Meaning...?"

"How much it gets rattled about. We dropped this box down the stairs last year after it slipped out of your grip and fell on my foot."

"Oh right."

"So this cable has experienced a great deal of disturbance." Sherlock reached for a pen. "There's a formula that shows exactly how‒"

"‒I don't need to see a formula, thanks." John held his hand up. "Do you feel like untangling this?"

"Not in the least."

"Me neither."

That year, passersby 221 were treated to the sight of a beach ball-sized tangled lump of fairy lights glinting in the upstairs window beside a small pine tree decorated with sparkling skulls and red and gold globes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's more info on the formula and tangle probability stuff Sherlock was talking about.   
> https://www.pnas.org/content/104/42/16432.full


	5. Mrs. Hudson's Book Club, part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: holiday desserts and snacks.

The doorbell rang downstairs for the fifth time in an hour. John heard the faint tinkle of Mrs. Hudson's laughter as she opened the door and greeted her friend.

Mrs. Hudson and a group of nine or so people had formed a book club ages ago. Usually they met monthly at someone's house, rotating hosting duties so one person wasn't burdened with the responsibility of it every time. For December, the group had decided to challenge themselves. They'd read a book every week and meet every Sunday. Mrs. Hudson had volunteered to host each time as many of the other members had family visiting and she didn't mind. Her flat's location was convenient for people doing holiday shopping in the city.

The savory smells of food had been drifting up the steps all day and John's stomach was getting curious. He might need to do some investigating of his own. Maybe she needed a hand in the kitchen?

He popped down the steps and peeked his head into her open flat. Festive fairy lights were strung up and he could see her decorated tree glowing in the sitting room. He blinked at the sight in the kitchen. Her table and countertops were loaded with food. Everyone was in the sitting room and he crept into the kitchen to get better look. Crock pots of meatballs and bacon-wrapped dates were beside platters of pigs in a blanket. Hot spinach dip was being served with little slices of garlic toast. Chicken wings and loads of sauces were spread out on the table, along with a half-hearted veggie tray. John's eyes went wider at the chocolate-raspberry cheesecake iced with tasteful white frosting in the shape of snowflakes. The spread was magnificent and could feed an army. He speared a meatball and chewed thoughtfully. He liked to read. How exclusive was this club?

"Oh, hullo, dear!" Mrs. Hudson strode into the room with some empty glasses. She made for the wine bottle.

"Er, do you need a hand?" He asked.

"No, thank you! Everyone is just getting settled in."

"Ah. What book did you read this week?"

" _Pride and Prejudice and Mistletoe."_ She said. "We're doing festive books this month for the season."

"Yeah, I've heard that one's good." He lied. He'd read _Pride and Prejudice_ in school but didn't remember much about it other than he hadn't wanted to read it. He stared at the cheesecake. "Can anyone join this club?"

"Are you interested? That would be lovely! You should be warned, dear, it's mostly pensioners. Though Betty has a daughter who comes sometimes. Lovely girl. Single." She nudged him knowingly and picked up the spinach dip and toasts. "I'll let you know what the next book is and you and Sherlock can join us next week."

John blinked. He was so certain Sherlock would refuse he wasn't even going to ask.

"That'd be great!" He said with a grin. She took the dip into the other room and John grabbed a bacon-wrapped date before heading back upstairs. It was a bit disingenuous to join a book club mainly for the food, but as long as he paid his way in the form of reading and conversation, he saw no real harm. His trousers might not like the extra snacking but hell, it was Christmas. He'd walk home from work to make up for it. 'Tis the season and all. He hoped the next week's book was a good one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, readers! I love the kudos and kindness <3


	6. Angel

John stepped into the hallway in 221B. Rather, the wind blew him practically into the stairs. It was a crap evening on top of a crap shift. He'd been thrown up on three times and people had been short with him all day. The rain had started up in the afternoon and by evening, had turned to icy sleet, the kind that shot through every layer of clothing he wore and stabbed needles into his face and hands. He was damp and cold and hungry. He left his wet jacket hanging by door and gingerly peeled his shoes off his feet. He'd bring them up later to dry out by the fire. He trudged up the steps in his socks and scrubbed a hand through his hair. Thank the heavens he'd a woolly hat in his desk at work or his ears would be aching with numb redness.

The sweet strains of the violin floated down the stairs and John smiled. Sherlock was in a not-insane mood and John ear twigged the piece: "Oh Come all ye Faithful." That was a surprise from his atheist flat mate. John knew Sherlock liked Christmas music, even if he didn't believe.

John slipped into the flat, thrilled to see the kettle boiled and steaming. He poured himself a quick cup of tea and as it steeped, he retreated to his room to change into dry things. A pair of sweatpants and a fleece top felt much better than his damp work trousers and vomit-y shirt. He slipped fleece slippers on his feet and sighed in pleasure. He hurried downstairs to get the tea before it got bittered by the bag. The fridge yielded leftover Angelo's he'd forgotten about and he heated it up before carrying it all into the sitting room. When John appeared, food and tea in hand, Sherlock launched into "Angels we have Heard on High." The tension bled out of John's shoulders as he ate the cheesy sausage ravioli and chased it with creamy tea that was just tolerably hot to drink. He sank deeper into the sofa and sighed, glad to be home.

Sherlock finished the last vibrating note off the violin and let his right arm fall gracefully. He glanced at John's pasta and, quick as a snake, set the bow down and twisted John's fork so the speared ravioli popped into his mouth. John blinked, surprised. Sherlock winked at him and gulped it into his mouth and launched into a spirited "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing." John shook his head fondly as he finished off the food. Sherlock could be a right prick sometimes, but times like these more than made up for it.


	7. Ashes and Soot

The clatter of metal on metal woke John up one cloudy Saturday morning. He glanced at the clock. Half seven. He closed his eyes. The clatter had come from downstairs and John hoped Sherlock wasn't beginning some elaborate, stinky experiment. He wrinkled his nose. It smelled faintly of alcohol.

John was mostly wrong. Sherlock wasn't beginning an experiment, he was already well underway. John, fully dressed to face the day, was treated with the sight of every piece of living room furniture draped protectively with white cloths and Sherlock's rear end sticking out of the ashy, dirty fireplace. He'd left the tree uncovered and it now sported a fine mist of charcoal. John didn't care. Some people used flocking and tinsel on their tree, they used hearth ash.

In the kitchen Sherlock had notes strewn about the table. John peeked at them en route to the coffee pot and recognized the tobacco ash notations he'd put on his website.

"What are you doing?" John called.

"Updating."Sherlock said, hopping out of the fireplace. A vial of ash was clutched in his hand and goggled covered his sooty face. "My tobacco ash study is out of date. I want to freshen it up."

"By what, adding fireplace soot to it?"

"Precisely."

John tactfully chose not to tell Sherlock that the reason people weren't looking at his ash data wasn't because it was incomplete. "Why does it smell like a pub in here?"

"That's not me." Sherlock said flippantly.

"Boys?" Mrs. Hudson was tromping up the steps. "Are you both up? Oh good. Try this." She held out a mug to John and set the other beside Sherlock's notes. John sniffed and drew back as if burned. "What is this? Ethanol?"

She laughed, the color high on her cheeks. "No, no. I make this every year. It's my holiday drinky recipe."

John gave it another dubious sniff and sipped. Apple-cherry flavored fire burned a hot line down his throat and puffed up behind his eyes. He huffed.

"Jesus, Mrs. Hudson, you could fuel half the cabs in London on this!"

She giggled.

"Tell me you’re not drinking this now?" He refrained from pointing out the time of morning.

"Not at all, dear. It needs to brew and sit. It's time consuming, see. I start early."

"Well, best of luck." He handed her the mug back. "It's very, er, flavorful."

"Sherlock, are you going to try?" She called.

Sherlock was staring at the soot through his microscope. "I think John's reaction speaks for both of us."

She shook her head at John. "Oh, he's not one to hold his liquor." She took the mugs back. "Glad he covered the furniture though. It would be a nightmare to get all the soot out of the sofa seams." She went down the steps. John hoped she'd be careful. She did love Christmas so. He'd check on her later and put her in the recovery position if necessary. For now, he was going to take advantage of the early hour and a well-occupied Sherlock to get some Christmas shopping done.


	8. Warm Bath

The tub in 221B, big enough for two, was full of steamy hot water. Sherlock let his dressing gown slide off his shoulders and into his hand. Naked now, he caught it and hung it on a hook before stepping into the sumptuous bath. He shivered as the hot water encased his calves and he groaned as he crouched and sank back into the heavenly water. He sighed, long and deep, and slid forward until everything below his chin was submerged. He closed his eyes and hummed in pleasure.

"John?" He called.

"Yeah, coming." John stepped into the room in his terry striped dressing gown and gave Sherlock a naughty grin. "Started without me?"

"You're too slow."

"I come bearing gifts."

"You're enough for now. Get in." Sherlock pulled his legs back and watched John set a bottle of something red and white on the floor beside the tub. He took his gown off and hung it beside Sherlock's before easing himself into the tub.

"Oooch, tha's s'nice…" John sank into the water, disappearing before popping up. "This was a lovely idea."

"Mmm." Sherlock leaned his head back on the rounded tub edge. They'd each had a long week. John had agreed to take extra shifts at work, given that the case load was slow. Of course the moment he was scheduled, a really weird one came across Lestrade's desk. Both men had been out of the flat all week and barely had time to share a meal, much less truly connect. They were both looking forward to a hot soak and some messy sex tonight.

"D'you want to try this?" John picked up the red and white bottle. "Got it at work from the gift-raffle thing."

Sherlock rose a brow at the label. "Candy Cane bubble bath?"

"It really only makes sense to use it this month." John said. "And when in Rome…" he gestured vaguely at the bathwater.

"Sure." Sherlock said.

John tipped the little bottle into the water and swirled his hands around. A vaguely minty scent filled the air. It wasn't unpleasant and it almost had a menthol-meets-eucalyptus flavor about it. John added another generous dollop of the gel and paddled his hands in the water, creating frothing bubbles.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "That's really strong."

"Too much?" John frowned.

The scent, miraculously, seemed to be expanding like a mushroom cloud. Gone was the light mint and in its place was an industrial factory chemical reek that had only ever dreamed of candy canes.

"Ulgh!" Sherlock recoiled. The smell would make a skunk vomit.

"Oh, that's pungent." John wrinkled his nose. "Maybe if we drain the water?"

"It's still in the air, John!" Sherlock got up and stepped out of the tub. He sniffed his forearm. "Now _we_ smell like it!"

John was already draining the warm water away and turning on the shower head.

"Sorry, sorry, bad idea. Let's just take a shower and get out of here."

Sherlock picked up the offending bottle, opened the loo's little window, and lobbed it into the alley.

"Sherlock!" John snickered as it banged into the bins below.

"The only place that belongs." Sherlock declared. He swept out of his dressing gown and stepped into the now-streaming shower. He grabbed his shampoo bottle and popped it open, eager to rid the room of the awful stink. "Joining me?" He asked. He drew his gaze rakishly across John's damp body and disappeared behind the curtain. John followed. The warm bath may have been a disaster but they could still salvage some romance from this evening.


	9. A Narrow Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used three prompts in this one: winter, escape, and snowball fight.

They'd been working on the case all morning. John and Sherlock had arrived at NSY at half eight and they'd been sifting through evidence, making calls, brainstorming, and consuming heroic amounts of coffee when Lestrade finally announced they were all going outside to get some lunch take a well deserved break.

The cold winter air was brisk and refreshing after being stuffed into the conference room all morning with its window that didn't open. The air seared the lungs and fresh, soft flakes of snow were drifting out of the milky-grey sky. They went to a deli up the road that the officers often frequented (the management gave coppers a 20% discount) and tore into toasted sandwiches and bowls of hearty soup. John glanced around the table as they ate, noting that everyone was enjoying themselves. No one (Sherlock) was being rude or snarky, and no one (also Sherlock) was glowering in the corner like some great bat. He and Sally traded good-natured insults and John and Greg talked about football. On the way back to the office they decided to cut through a little park. John, feeling impish, hung back from the group and gathered a ball of snow in his gloved hands. Sherlock glanced back, saw what he was up to, and grinned. John lobbed the snowball at Lestrade's back, prompting a loud "Oye!" He spun around and saw John's naughty grin. 

In no time at all Greg had his own snowball. He lobbed it at John's head. He ducked just in time. Sherlock and Sally were pummeling each other with snow by this point. Sally's scarf was full of snow and Sherlock's curls were dusted white. Sherlock dove behind a bench and John followed. Greg and Sally hid behind a fountain and they all took turns flinging snowballs at each other. They were having such fun that no one noticed the two police officers cutting through the park, heads down and pace brisk as they made their way from one end of the park to the other. John leaped up at exactly the wrong time and lobbed a snowball at what he thought was Greg. He realized his mistake a second too late and gasped as the snowball exploded on the officer's coat. 

"Hey!" He yelled. He looked at his we coat and back up to John.

"Oh, no, I am so sorry!" John said, horrified. "I thought you were someone else. I didn't mean to--"

"Someone else? Who were you aiming for?" The officer looked around. No one else was taking this shortcut. Of course Greg and Sally were hiding low. Sherlock, the bastard, was huddled out of sight at John's side and laughing silently into his scarf as his flatmate got shouted by the officer.

"No one, eh? I should give you a bleeding ASBO, ain't you too old for this shite anyway?"

"No, I mean, yes, I--"

The other officer patted his friend's arm in a sort of "forget about him and let's go," gesture. The angry officer shot a glare at John and they moved off. He let out a short breath of relief, glad for his narrow escape. He didn't want to have to have yet another ASBO expunged from his record. It wasn't until they were out of the park that Greg and Sally tumbled out from behind the fountain, laughing their arses off. Sherlock stood up, laughing too but not nearly as hard as Greg and Sally.

"You can all go to hell." John said, smiling. 

This made them laugh harder. John rubbed the back of his neck, feeling awkward for having been shouted at by the officer.

"Christ, your face!" Greg hooted.

"You sounded so scared!" Sally added.

"I didn't see either of you helping, thanks very much!" John said. He wasn't really angry. It had been pretty funny. 

Greg and Sally giggled some more and Greg wiped his eyes. "Fuck that was good."

"Excuse me, officers?" Sherlock said in his politest voice. Thrown, they looked at him. He was holding two of the biggest snowballs John had ever seen. They looked at Sherlock, struck dumb, before he flung them at the coppers. They each got a chestful of snow and John threw his head back and laughed. Trust Sherlock to have his back in the end.


	10. Wonder

Every year at this time Sherlock would hear about "Christmas Spirit." People would tell others to "get in the Christmas Spirit" or say "where's your Christmas Spirit?" He wondered if it was possible to measure said spirit and, a year ago, decided to try. It was a frustratingly intangible thing to measure. How did one measure 'spirit?' Fortunately his flatmate and land lady were of that breed who thoroughly enjoyed Christmas and he'd created some parameters by which to attempt to measure 'spirit.'

  1. The festiveness of their clothes, especially Mrs. Hudson's aprons and John's jumpers.
  2. The amount of Christmas music heard in the building. This included anything from carols played on the radio or streamed through a computer to someone humming a few bars of "God Rest you Merry Gentlemen."
  3. How early the Christmas decorations went up (John seemed to favor the first weekend in Christmas, give or take. Mrs. Hudson put hers up even earlier. Last year she had her tree up and decorated in the last week of November).
  4. The amount of what he broadly termed "Christmas food" that appeared (including but not limited to decorated biscuits and fruitcakes), and finally,
  5. The general merriment.



This last criteria was the hardest to measure and Sherlock was considering removing it entirely. This endeavor was nebulous enough as it was.

Last year after he'd tallied everything he'd concluded that 221's sense of Christmas spirit was at 84.78% out of a possible one hundred. He thought that was pretty good for a structure containing three people, one of which was simply observing. He was mildly curious to see how this year would measure up.

"What are you writing all the time in that notebook?" John asked one afternoon. Sherlock was curled in his chair, his black-covered notebook on his knees as he made a quick note of the color of John's jumper and the fact that he just took a red and green mug from the cabinet.

"Notes." He said unhelpfully. 

John rolled his eyes. "Have a case on?"

"Not as such." Sherlock snapped the notebook closed. His phone vibrated with Mycroft's name across the screen. Sherlock made a face and shoved the phone deep into the chair.

Mrs. Hudson popped into the kitchen with a plate of frosted biscuits.

"Hello, John. Don't mind me, I'm just bringing some bikkies up for you loves to have with your tea."

"Brilliant." John glanced at the plate she put down on the table. A dozen brightly decorated biscuits in the shapes of trees and snowmen sat on a gold-edged plates shaped like a star. In the other room, Sherlock was furiously scrawling in the notebook again, glancing up now and then at Mrs. Hudson's apron which was covered in a pattern of Father Christmas and his reindeer.

"Don't know what he's up to." John said, biting the head off a snowman.

"He's been writing in that notebook for days." She said in a loud whisper. 

"Not a case." John told her in a low voice. "He's being cagey about it."

She hummed, intrigued, and went into the sitting room with the plate.

"Have a biscuit, dear."

Sherlock grunted.

"What are you writing so diligently in that notebook?"

"Nothing."

"Is it about us?" John joked, popping the rest of the snowman into his mouth.

Sherlock froze. He hadn't expected that.

"It is!" John said, accusing. "What are you writing about us?"

Sherlock sighed, closed the notebook, and got to his feet. "It's nothing bad." He said. "It's an...experiment."

He explained the experiment to them. They were both delighted and amused.

"Don't change your behavior!" He demanded. "It'll skew the results!"

"Of course not." Mrs. Hudson said. "I'll forget I know!"

"You should put the results on your website." John said.

Sherlock stepped back, offended. 

"I'm serious. It'll be like a fun side thing in addition to the serious stuff. People'll think you're human."

The day after the new year, a link went up on "The Science of Deduction" titled "Measuring the Wonder of the Season." 


	11. Mrs. Hudson's Book Club, part 2

John realized a few days later that he'd promised Mrs. Hudson he's attend the next book club meeting but that he had no idea what the book even was. He sent her a quick text before leaving work to ask. She got back to him quickly with the title: _The Christmas Boutique_ by Jennifer Chiaverini. He stopped by the library to grab it and they fortunately had several copies on the festive 'happy holidays' shelf. He stared at the other copies and thought. Would anyone else want to join? He felt a bit badly that he was mainly showing up for the food and wondered if by bringing a fellow reader, he would be more welcomed. Who could he ask? His coworkers were all busy with holiday things, family, and work. He honestly didn't know if many of them were readers. He couldn't see Sarah reading a book like this. He eyed the cover and it's Christmas tree and general warmth. She was more into spy thrillers. To be fair, so was he, but it was healthy to broaden one's horizons. Sherlock would not do it. Greg....? Maybe? Mike. He doubted it, but maybe. He thought of Mycroft and laughed. Molly? Hm, Molly might just be willing. He checked out two copies of the book and went home.

The next day, he and Sherlock stopped by the morgue so Sherlock could pick up a bile sample. John made sure to bring the extra copy of the book. 

"Molly, you like to read, right?" He said.

"I do! I wish I could read more. It's so hard to fit in around work and things, you know?"

"Yeah. Listen, Mrs. Hudson is part of a book club and they're doing this thing in December where they read a book every week. Like an extra challenge."

"Ooohh!" Her eyes went wide. 

"I told her I'd do it, do you...want to also?"

"I do, but..." she paused. "I don't know if I can read a whole book every week...I would hate to commit and fail."

"There'll be loads of food." John said. "Appetizers, snacks, dessert."

"Really?" Her eye took on a particular gleam that he liked.

"It's just a bunch of retired folks but it's like they're feeding an army."

Molly nodded. "The nans are in the swing of baking season. I'll give it a try." She nodded.

"Great! I'm reading too, so if we miss bits or don't finish, we can fill each other in.

"Oh, good idea! Yeah, I'll do it. What's the book?"

John handed her his extra copy. "They meet Sundays at seven. Mrs. H is hosting this month so it's at 221."

"Brilliant." She looked at the cover and flipped it open to read the summary. 

"Are you two quite done nattering over there?" Sherlock asked drolly. He had his sample tucked into his pocket and was ready to go.

"Yeah." John chirped. "See you Sunday, Molly."

He and Sherlock left and John promised himself he'd start reading tonight. He wasn't one of those super-reader people who could read a whole book in a sitting. He needed all the time he could get. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated.


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